To Understand
by OneSizeFitsAll
Summary: Therapy sessions with Elrond. The Lord of Imladris struggles to come to grips with his family drama. (Not as funny as it sounds.) Two-shot.
1. Elros

**A/N: Wow. It feels so weird to be writing A/Ns again.**

 **I haven't written fanfic in forever, but** **I found a half-finished version of this kicking around and decided to complete it. Warning: if any of you old timers who know me are still around, this story is not at all like what I normally write. Repeat: It's not funny. At all. This is appropriately labeled angst.**

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Lord Elrond sat in his study reading a very long, very dry book as a cool spring breeze and the sound of clashing steel drifted in through the open window. It was spring in Rivendell, and Elladan and Elrohir were practicing their fencing in the garden, at home for once, though not for long. Elrond smiled as he glanced at them from the window. They were enough to make any father proud.

He watched as Elrohir twisted Elladan's sword out of his brother's hand, tossing his own aside and tackling him with his bare hands. That was like something Elros would do, Elrond thought, quietly laughing as the two elves wrestled on the grass. Then he sighed. It was very like something Elros would do. Elrohir grew more like his uncle everyday. It was too bad they would never meet each other.

For a moment, he was back again, back to the days when he and Elros had romped as children in the hills of Himring, Uncle Maglor joining in, as playful as though he were an elfling again himself. Uncle Maedhros' sober, war-beaten face brightened by a slight, wistful smile as he watched.

Elrond sighed again as the vision faded and turned his attention back to his book. But the words blurred before his eyes, and his mind suddenly became unable to comprehend the strategy behind this or that battle.

He remembered when they had first been told of the Choice. He had chosen without question, nearly without thought. He would be of the Eldar, the race of Luthien and Idril his grandmothers, of Maglor and Maedhros who had treated him and his brother so kindly in their youth, and of Gil Galad, who had appointed him his herald. It had been the obvious choice.

He had expected Elros to choose the same, and had been puzzled when his younger brother had paused, obviously hesitant. What was there to hesitate about?

He was reliving it, now. Elros had raised his head, apparently having come to a decision. "I choose to be counted as one of the Edain," he had said, quietly, but quite distinctly.

He was there, heard himself gasp, felt the sudden clenching in his chest all over again. Elros had heard the gasp, too, and cast him a beseeching glance. "Try to understand," that glance said. "Please. Please try."

"Why?" Elrond had stammered, as everything had seemed to sink away around him. "Why?"

"I-I'm sorry, Rond," said Elros. He hadn't called him Rond for so many years, 'til then. It was a pet name used in their youngest days. Rond and Ro, they had called each other. "I'm sorry," he said. "But that is my choice."

Elrond shut the book with a bang. It was no good trying to read. He stood by the window and gazed out at the garden. Lindir walked along the paths, waving a butterfly net. The twins had set aside their swords for bows.

"Hey, Ro," joked Elladan, who'd just made a bull's eye, "bet you can't do better than that!"

Elrond shut the window suddenly. The early spring breeze was chilly, and had made him shiver.

He sat down at his desk and began to write a letter, but it was no good. It kept coming back and crowding into his mind. There had been a chilly spring breeze that day, too; but instead of being scented of flowers and rain and newly cut grass, it had borne the salty smell of the great unending sea.

"You really won't sail, then?" asked Elros, as they stood facing each other awkwardly.

"No," replied Elrond, trying to hide how wretched he felt. "I belong here."

Elros was going to Numenor, where he would be crowned king. Elrond would remain in Beleriand as King Gil Galad's herald.

Elros looked away suddenly. "Will I see you again?" he asked after a moment.

Elrond didn't know what to say. He didn't know anything. But he knew Elros wanted an answer.

"Of course you will," he said, hoping he wasn't lying. Then he suddenly reached out and hugged his little brother.

Elrond sighed and opened his eyes. Elros had always been mature for his age...he was already mature enough to be a good king at only 90 years...but Elrond was still the older brother. They were so different: Elros so light-hearted and brave, Elrond more sober and cool-headed. His brother had looked up to him.

But not enough to follow him everywhere. It had been Elros' choice, and he had made it. Elrond still didn't understand. He wondered if he ever would.

He stood up. He had a lot to do...too much to sit around day-dreaming, he scolded himself. He stepped out of his study, adjusting his robes.

Elros was gone now, and Elrond couldn't understand it. It had been so short. It seemed but a day since their parting when when he heard that the King of Numenor was dead. Not of any wound or illness, but of old age. He had lived but 500 years: a mere moment in Elrond's life. And yet he knew it was far longer than most men lived.

Elrond suddenly realized that he was old. He had watched a whole line of kings be made, reign, and break. He was very old.

He stopped and gazed at the shards of Narsil. He had not meant to come to the chapel, but somehow as his mind wandered, so had his feet, and they had brought him here.

Here to the sword of Elendil, the man who he had loved not only as a nephew, but as a friend. Here to the remembrance of Isildur, also, whom Elrond had cared for as much as his own sons. And yet it seemed that Isildur had returned no love.

The guilt was so strong, and yet Elrond kept telling himself there was nothing he could have done. Could he have slain his friend's child, the descendant of his own brother, in whom so much of Elros was preserved? Then surely the line of Numenor would have ended, and no king ruled from Gondor. And so he had let Isildur keep the ring and throw away the honor of his ancestors. He had stood by and said much, but done nothing.

It had all been to no purpose. Isildur had been shot by a wandering orc party, and the line of kings was broken, though his heirs lived on in the wild. He had been helpless to help him, he knew, but the guilt was still there.

He resumed his walk, the huge mural on the wall catching his eye as he did so. It showed Isildur battling Sauron, a dead Elendil in the background. Elrond turned abruptly, with a frown. He would have to tell Erestor to paint over the image. It was too disturbing. What if Arwen came in here some time?

He wandered listlessly out onto the terrace. Lindir had apparently stopped waving his butterfly net and was singing, several other elvish voices joining his in a slow, sad lament.

" _Gil Galad was an Elven-King,_  
 _Of him the harpers sadly sing…_ "

Elrond listened sadly. Elendil was not the only friend who had died in that battle. Gil Galad...his King, his friend, his mentor...had perished by the heat of Sauron's hand and his spirit had passed to the Halls of Mandos. Years had gone by, but the sorrow had not diminished.

But this he was able to understand. Someday Elrond himself might perish in battle, and his spirit too would go to the Halls of Mandos. Yet not even the Valar knew where men went at death.

And yet that was the path Elros had chosen. And Elrond would never understand.

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 **TBC.**


	2. Arwen

**A/N: Thank you so much for your kind reviews! Here's the next (and last) chapter. Enjoy!**

There was only the slightest breeze...just enough to push the ship at a snail's pace out of the harbour. The parties aboard sat or stood in small groups, talking quietly among themselves and every now and again glancing hopefully westwards towards the setting sun.

Elrond really had been trying to talk to Bilbo...to keep his old friend happy and entertained on his last adventure...but almost subconsciously he had fallen silent, and Bilbo had wandered off to speak with his nephew.

Elrond hardly even noticed when he left, for his mind was busy with it's own thoughts.

"Ada?" She had slipped unexpectedly into the darkening study and stood before his desk. "I need to speak with you."

He raised an eyebrow and laid down his pen. Arwen sat down gingerly in Erestor's vacant chair and fidgeted nervously with the hem of her sleeve.

"Yes?" asked Elrond after a long moment of silence.

"It...it is Estel," began Arwen. "I chanced on him in Lorien, and…" she paused, uncertain of how to continue. "Ada, I love him."

Elrond felt disbelief and a dark foreboding washing over him. They had met in Lothlorien? Had Estel been so bold as to defy his command? He remained silent, waiting for her to continue.

Arwen was obviously losing her composure under his cold gaze. "Ada," she continued, her voice quick and nervous, "I've chosen to live a mortal life with him. Please, don't be angry."

"He has betrayed my trust," said Elrond. Why shouldn't he be angry?

"No...Aragorn would never betray you," Arwen implored. "He..."

"I told him to bind no woman to himself until he rose above his Fathers or fell into darkness," said Elrond, "and he has done so. Is this not betrayal?"

"He did not bind me, Ada. It was my choice, and I bound myself. Don't be angry at him."

"So you ask me to give my daughter to a ranger?"

"I am not yours to give, but my own," said Arwen, eyes flashing, "and Aragorn is no common ranger. You should know that better than anyone, Ada. He is your brother's heir."

For the first time Elrond faltered. _Elros' heir._

But he was a man. A man who had forced his daughter to choose between her people…her father…and himself. That was unforgivable.

"Arwen," he said, more gently, "you do not know what you have chosen. Will you leave behind your grace and people for a mortal?"

"It was the choice of Luthien," replied Arwen. "As she chose, so I choose."

The choice of Luthien... yes. Luthien his great-grandmother. She had chosen to dwell with Beren in mortality, and it was because of her choice and the blood of Beren in his veins that Elrond had been offered the Choice. So had Elros, his brother, made the Choice, and now Arwen _Undómiel_ , his own daughter stood before him, resolved to follow her ancestor.

She waited in silence for him to speak, chewing her lip nervously, but there was no uncertainty in her eyes. "Try to understand," her face said. "Please. Please try."

 _Why?_ Elrond had wondered, as everything seemed to sink away around him. _Why?_

A seagull shrieked and dove towards the deck as Elrond started out of his reverie. Only a thin sliver of sun hovered over the horizon, painting sky and water red and orange and yellow. Before long, the gradually fading shores of Middle Earth would be quite out of sight and Elrond would be with his people in the Undying Lands.

Many had gone before him. Erestor, Glorfindel, Lindir...they had all left Imladris, one by one. When he arrived, they would be reunited. Perhaps they would reminisce over full glasses of Dorwinion, or whatever the favourite vintage happened to be in Valinor. Soon, his sons, Elladan and Elrohir, would join them, and all would be as the old days in Rivendell.

Elladan and Elrohir would come, but Arwen would not.

Elrond leaned over the ship's side and watched the pink water foam and tumble around the bow. It had been a sunrise that morning, the first of it's kind since Sauron had built his fortress in Angband, cutting through the darkness in the East and casting a pink glow on the white walls and whiter tree of Minas Tirith. The courtyard had been busy, full of hustling people and hushed voices: saying farewells, calling for horses, even conversing merrily with fellow travelers.

They had already said goodbye the night before, but Arwen still clung to him. "Will I see you again?" she had asked, her soft voice breaking.

Elrond knew why she asked. She would stay here in Minas Tirith, with her new husband and king, but Elrond must return home to Imladris. Before long, he might leave Middle Earth forever, and Arwen could never follow him to the white shores. "Of course you will," he said, wishing it was true. But it was time to leave; he gently pushed her away.

She had looked so much like his mother in the gray light of morning, and Elrond caught his breath at the thought. His mother...yes. Elwing, who had cast herself into the sea when at last there seemed no other hope in the siege of Sirion. Elrond and Elros, taken in and cared for kindly by their very attackers, had thought her dead. It had been some time before they discovered the truth: that she had survived, and found their father, Earendil, returning at last from his long voyage...but they had never come back for them.

Elrond did not remember them often.

He straightened as the last light faded into the West. Perhaps he would see his mother again in the Undying Lands, but he could never go back for Arwen. She would live long years in Middle Earth before being laid to rest under the stars and fading into shadow.

And yet that had been her choice.

And Elrond would never understand.


End file.
